Near Whitechapel Station, I found a bike for hire and rode to the nearby police station. Inside, no one paid me much attention. I tapped a uniformed constable on the shoulder.
“Can I help ye, miss?” he asked in a gruff voice. He was so bald that his head shone under the fluorescent lights. His name tag said Potter.
“I was wondering if you had information on the Durward Street murder case,” I answered. “I heard on the news that no CCTV cameras were pointed toward the killer, but I just came from there, and the cameras are obviously in the right place, so—”
“Are ye a reporter?” he asked bluntly.
“No, I’m a private investigator.” I’d told that lie so often that it came out like the truth. “I’ve been looking into the matter—”
“Someone hired you?”
“No, but—”
Potter walked off, deeper into the station. Since he hadn’t answered my question, I took this as an invitation to follow him. He lifted an eyebrow when he noticed me tagging along.
“We can’t release information to the public,” he said. “Run along, miss.”
I kept pace with him. “Is it true you don’t have any CCTV footage? Or do you believe the footage was tampered with? Is it possible the footage was deleted, or are the police trying to cover up their incompetence?”
“Ye must make friends easily,” Potter replied sarcastically, lowering his robust figure into a desk chair. The chair groaned beneath his weight. “I can’t tell ye anything, miss. Please leave before I have to escort ye out.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but a familiar man burst past me, knocking me into Potter’s lap.
“This is bollocks!” the charging man was saying, and I realized where I’d seen him before: that morning on the telly. “Who told the damned news we don’t have the footage? We look like idiots!”
“Oi, get off me,” Potter said, lifting me up.
But I was already out of Potter’s chair and following Chief Inspector Baker. A few officers trailed after him like pilot fish alongside a shark. Baker expressed his frustration through vigorous hand motions. As he moaned, his hands flew through the air. His subordinates ducked and swerved Baker’s emphatic jabs.
“Shut it down,” he barked at no one in particular. “I don’t want the news all over this. If it gets out we don’t have any leads—sod it!” The inspector had accidentally hip-checked his desk in his attempt to sit down, causing a miniature earthquake. Files and paperwork went flying. A cup of pens tipped over and rattled away, spitting writing utensils across the floor. A glass paperweight rolled off the desk and shattered. “Bollocks!”
I began to assume that was Chief Inspector Baker’s favorite word. His shoes crunched on the broken glass as he slipped out from behind the desk.
“Someone clean this up!”
As the inspector stalked off, a single constable stayed behind to right the desk. A folder balancing on the edge of the desk caught my eye. I bumped into the constable, turning him away from the file in the process.
“Oh, sorry!” I said, keeping one hand on the constable’s waist as if to steady him while I grabbed the file and used my other hand to tuck it up the back of my jacket. “I’m so clumsy. Ask Constable Potter. I practically flattened him a moment ago. Toodles!”
“Yanks,” Potter muttered, shaking his head.
I slipped out of the station before anyone noticed the missing file. As I hurried toward Evelyn’s, I pulled the file out and flipped through it.
It contained the inspector’s personal notes on William Lewis, the man who had been killed. My heart sank when I saw Lewis’s age. He was twenty-three. I read on, squinting to decode Inspector Potter’s messy handwriting. According to his notes, Lewis was a medical student, on his way to a shift at the Royal London Hospital when he was taken down by the killer. Ironically, Lewis had been shadowing consultants in the Trauma Surgery department.
No amount of trauma knowledge would have saved Lewis from his wounds. Potter had included detailed descriptions of the attack. Lewis died from two cuts that severed his throat, but the attacker hadn’t stopped there. Lewis’s abdomen had also been jaggedly slashed open. Potter’s scribbled drawing was enough to make my stomach turn, but I couldn’t look away. The wounds matched the Ripper’s first kill, down to the finest details. The only difference was the victim’s gender.
When I looked up from Baker’s notes, I found myself passing the Royal London Hospital. My route back to Evelyn’s had taken me straight to the hospital building. It wouldn’t hurt to go in, right?
My feet carried me through the Accident and Emergency entrance without conscious thought. I shoved the file up my shirt again and zipped my coat to keep it in place. It was a busy evening for emergencies. The waiting room was full of potential patients.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse behind the check-in desk.
“Yes, I’m Jacqueline Frye,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. Is there someone here I could speak to about William Lewis?”
The nurse’s eyebrows furrowed together. Surely, she wondered why an American was investigating a murder in London. “We already spoke to the police about this.”
“I’m not with the police,” I said. “I need the information for my own investigation. Is it possible to speak with someone who knew William?”
“I don’t think—”
“You’re here about William?” A young man in a white coat emerged from the adjacent hallway. He could have been a doctor, but the absence of scuff marks on his polished loafers gave away his inexperience. “He was my best friend.”
I turned away from the nurse and offered my hand to the young man. “I’m Jack. And you are?”
“James.”
“Do you feel comfortable talking about William?” I asked. “Maybe you could show me around the hospital?”
“I’m on my way to a patient’s room.” James gestured for me to walk alongside
